


The Stork Club, Two Ways

by faithlessone



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 16:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18703447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: She keeps more than half an eye on the door, even though she knows he’s not going to walk through it.Just a steady trickle of people who aren’t him. Girls in bright dresses, boys in pressed uniforms and smart suits; laughing and talking. Couples and groups, mostly, rarely by themselves. This isn’t the sort of place to come alone.She shouldn’t have come here at all, really.Her gaze drops from the door to her wristwatch; it’s barely even half-past seven. The slightest flutter of hope. She told him eight. And if anyone were going to survive that plane crash, it would be him.





	The Stork Club, Two Ways

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the first part of this fic in my head for about 8 years, but it never felt finished enough to actually put down. However... that scene in Endgame gave me a new way to end it. :) I don't know if this is how it happened, but this is the way I see it going...

She keeps more than half an eye on the door, even though she knows he’s not going to walk through it.

Just a steady trickle of people who aren’t him. Girls in bright dresses, boys in pressed uniforms and smart suits; laughing and talking. Couples and groups, mostly, rarely by themselves. This isn’t the sort of place to come alone.

She shouldn’t have come here at all, really.

Her gaze drops from the door to her wristwatch; it’s barely even half-past seven. The slightest flutter of hope. She told him eight. And if anyone were going to survive that plane crash, it would be him.

The sound of breaking glass draws her attention, hand moving instinctively to the holster under her skirt. It’s nothing but a shattered cocktail glass; two giggling girls at the bar, and an overly distracted bartender.

And then…

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing drinking alone?”

A Brooklyn accent. Just for a fraction of a second the voice makes her want to smile. He was always unpredictable.

But it’s not him.

Of course, it’s not him.

She knows her expression has turned icy by the man (tall, but not as tall; fair, but not as fair; handsome, but not as handsome) raising a casual hand in surrender and giving her a grin she supposes would be immediately disarming to any other girl in the bar.

“Freshen your drink at least? What’s that, vodka soda?”

He’s half-right. She hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol in over a week, half-convinced she wouldn’t be able to stop if she started.

“Thank you, but no, I’m waiting for someone.”

The voice doesn’t sound like her own, but it’s crisp and sharp and makes him take half a step back and his hand away from her glass. It doesn’t, however, make him leave.

“That’s a Brit accent, right? I was stationed over there for a bit.”

“How nice for you. As I said, I’m waiting for someone.”

He rests a hand on the chair beside hers, head tilted as if waiting for her to actively object.

“Eh, I’m sure he won’t mind me keeping you company. What kind of fella makes his girl wait?”

She glances over his shoulder towards the bar. A blonde is lolling against it, her eyes trained on the brunette beside her, deep in conversation with a man in a Navy uniform. She knows a wistful, jealous look when she sees one.

“One who knows I can take care of myself. I think you’ll have better luck with the blonde at the bar.”

He looks over his shoulder, clocking the girl in question. She notices him looking, smiles, and he straightens up, casting one last glance back.

“Thanks, doll. Hope your guy shows up soon.”

She watches for a moment as he sidles up to the blonde. Convinced that he is otherwise occupied, she turns her attention back to the door.

The band play on, but she barely hears them, her eyes firmly fixed.

Instead, she’s thinking of Steve, short and slight, wearing a belt with extra holes in it to secure the smallest army-issue trousers, pulling the pins out of the flagpole at Camp LeHigh and jumping into the jeep like he’d planned it all along.

Steve, short and slight, prone to coughing fits after any kind of exercise, leaping onto a grenade that she was already darting towards, yelling for everyone else to get back, not even knowing it was fake.

Steve, short and slight, categorically unable to tell anyone when he’d endured enough, screaming at Stark to keep going, until his outside finally matched the strength of the heart inside.

Steve, tall and strong, more of a man than anyone knew what to do with, sitting in the forward camp, doodling pictures of performing monkeys, and looking more lost than anyone she had ever met.

Steve, tall and strong, absolutely no clue about women, jumping out of a plane and bringing an army, tanks, tech, weapons, and his best friend, home from enemy territory.

Steve, tall and strong, surrounded by a group of the most unlikely companions, mourning said best friend.

Steve’s voice on the radio, barely holding himself together, as he decided to crash the Valkyrie down into the freezing waters of the North Atlantic.

It’s been more than a week without word, without any sign of life…

She sits there until the club begins to empty out entirely. Until the bartender calls last orders. Until the band stops playing.

Until a waitress comes by to pick up her empty glass.

“Hey there. Chuck says we’re closing up. Mind if I take this?”

“Of course. I hadn’t… My apologies, I’ll leave.”

She waves her hand dismissively and gives an understanding smile, sitting down at the table too. “No worries. I know that thousand-yard-stare. I lost my fiancé a year ago. Still can’t help thinking one day he’s gonna walk through that door and come pick me up from work like he always used to.”

“You… you have my sympathies.”

“Well, that’s war for you. Hopefully it’ll be over soon.”

“God willing.”

“Who are you waiting for, then?”

“My…”

She breaks off. Boyfriend seems such a cheap way of describing him. They were never even really together. Not properly, not the way she would have wanted. The serum, and the war, and, well, he’d never really taken her hints, had he? Not until it was too late. The silence lingers in the air between them, until the waitress breaks it.

“Complicated, huh? Lot of that going around. Don’t worry, you’ll get there, I promise. I’ll go wash this up. Chuck won’t turn out the lights for another few minutes. Go steady, you hear me?”

She nods, steeling herself. No more of this. Tomorrow she’s going to get out of bed, put on her best suit and her reddest lipstick, and get back to work. Just like he’d want her to.

And she does.

***

 

She keeps more than half an eye on the door, even though she knows he’s not going to walk through it.

Just a steady trickle of people who aren’t him. Girls in bright dresses, boys in pressed uniforms and smart suits; laughing and talking. Couples and groups, mostly, rarely by themselves. This isn’t the sort of place to come alone.

She shouldn’t have come here at all, really.

Her gaze drops from the door to her wristwatch; it’s barely even half-past seven. The slightest flutter of hope. She told him eight. And if anyone were going to survive that plane crash, it would be him.

The sound of breaking glass draws her attention, hand moving instinctively to the holster under her skirt. It’s nothing but a shattered cocktail glass; two giggling girls at the bar, and an overly distracted bartender.

And then…

“Of course, you’re early.”

A Brooklyn accent. Just for a fraction of a second the voice makes her want to smile. He was always unpredictable.

She turns, about to shut down whoever it is with an icy glare and a suggestion onto other sport, when she sees him.

_Him_.

He’s grinning down at her. Somehow he looks older, more polished, than the image of him she has in her head. A ghost, perhaps? But that brief thought fades away when he reaches for her hand. Not an apparition. Really  _him_.

“I had this plan. Be sitting at a table by the dance floor when you came in. Catch your eye. Ask you to dance. But I guess I was late after all.”

She isn’t entirely sure she trusts her voice. This whole week, she’s been forbidding herself to be one of _those_  girls, lying around crying all day long. But now that he’s standing in front of her, decidedly not lying dead at the bottom of the freezing waters of the North Atlantic, she finds she can hardly stop herself.

“I know, I know,” he says, grinning wider, tilting his head in that way he has to know melts her heart. “I still know nothing about women. You’ll have to teach me. And I think now we’ll have time.”

She lets him draw her up from her chair, holding her against him. His hand is solid on her waist, steady, like it’s never been before. That half-smile as she reaches hers up to run fingers through his hair.

“Like it? Got it done. Nothing but the best for my best girl.”

She still hasn’t said anything, the emotions so high up in her throat she can barely breathe, but she sees the reflection of those feelings in his eyes. Just for a moment, she wonders if it’s only been a week and a half for him, too.

“Where have you been?” she finally manages to ask.

“ _Long_  story. But you owe me a dance.”

They dance until the club begins to empty out entirely. Until the bartender calls last orders. Until the band stops playing.

And the next morning, neither of them get out of bed at all.


End file.
